


Addict

by remanth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Death, Gore, Mark of Cain, addict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 12:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3977623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remanth/pseuds/remanth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets captured by the Stynes. Or so they think. He's exactly where he wants to be: in the best position to slaughter them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Addict

While Dean wouldn’t be the first to call himself an addict, he would admit that there were things he was addicted to. Fast food, for one. He loved to cook and was very good at it. But there was just something about a greasy cheeseburger with all the trimmings and a side of french fries slathered in ketchup that just hit the spot. Or nachos covered in beef, cheese, and salsa. Or pizza and fried pickle chips. And he could go on and on about the fast food he loved. 

Another thing he was addicted to was music. It wasn’t all that strange, really, and hardly impacted his life. Most people loved music and listened to it whenever they could. Maybe he’d call it a hobby rather than an addiction. Though, he would agree that he was addicted to classic rock. He’d grown up listening to it and it was part of him now. That still didn’t stop him from enjoying other types of music. Just a little more circumspectly than the classic rock.

Yet another addiction was hunting and fighting. Dean loved a good fight, loved flying fists and throwing monsters to the ground. Hell, a good bar fight would stand him in good stead in a pinch. And in those places where a fight would draw attention, Dean could still have a sort of fight by hustling people at pool. It took many of the same skills to hustle pool as it did to win a fight.

That thirst for fighting, for besting others using your own skills and smarts and talents was what the Mark used to hook Dean. The violence was already there it merely amplified it and lowered the restrictions and inhibitions Dean put on himself. Where before he might have laughed off some douchebag getting in his face after losing at pool, now he swung first. Where he might have let a gray-area-innocent live, now he aimed for a kill shot. And when given an adequate trigger, after days and weeks of pushing and prodding, Dean went off like the loaded gun he was. 

Of course it was family that did it. Nothing the Mark itself had anything to do with but something it would capitalize on. At this point, Dean was half-convinced that the damn thing was somehow alive. It felt like it lurked on his arm, brooding and twisting invisible fingers through all his thoughts and feelings. Seeing Charlie bloody in that bathtub had been the last thing Dean needed to give in to the Mark. Without it, revenge was possible but not guaranteed. With it, revenge was guaranteed along with the rivers of blood he would wade in.

After he and Sam gave Charlie a hunter’s funeral, it was the least she deserved really, Dean took off. He followed what clues he had, what signs there were, to the Stynes in Louisiana. And there, he worked on sating the Mark that called out for blood and death. The first sentries on the large house went down laughably easy, a quick knife-thrust to throat or back dropping them without a sound. Dean was almost disappointed. He wanted tougher prey, wanted to beat and hack and claw and rend. But he had to get inside first.

That’s when the Stynes made their fatal mistake. Instead of killing him on sight, they drugged him and took him prisoner. When he woke up and looked around, automatically assessing the room, Dean knew exactly what would happen. The straps on his wrists might be strong enough to hold a regular person but not him. Not when the Mark screamed at him for more. So he played their game for a bit, soothing the Mark with the deceit. There would be blood soon. And he warned them of what would happen if they actually managed to kill him. Not that he thought they would. It was fair that way, after all, and it was more fun to play with the prey before killing it.

But soon, the Mark wasn’t satisfied with deceit anymore. And much as Dean knew he’d be back as a demon, he didn’t particularly want to go down that path again. So when the first person came at him, he broke the strap restraining his arm and shoved the person away. The nurse was the first to die, a needle jammed into her neck after he’d slammed her onto the metal table he’d been lying on previously. Her fault, really. She should know better than to come after him with a wimpy little needle. The younger man was next but his death was too quick. Like the sentries earlier on. It was too little.

With dead eyes and calm face, Dean turned to the elder Styne. When the man tried to fight back, Dean locked his arms tight around his neck. Not enough to strangle, not yet. Let him suffer, let him gasp for air, let blackness fade into his eyesight. Long enough to tell him exactly what Dean planned, how he was going to gut the Styne family and cut out their heart. For Charlie. Dean waited a few heartbeats more, feeling the man’s pulse pick up in terror as his fevered panting got slower and slower. Then, Dean snapped his neck. The crack echoed throughout his head and the Mark purred in approval. This was what it wanted. Not clean, not quick. And there were others upstairs.

Dean didn’t bother drawing his gun to hunt the others down. Instead, he took his knife and kicked down the door that led upstairs. He could hear music, televisions, and muted conversations among the rest of the house. Apparently, the others thought he was as good as dead. The more fool they. Dean stalked through the house quietly, every sense alert for signs of life. He’d counted twelve men holding guns on him, other than the eldest Styne, the younger one, and the nurse he’d killed downstairs. This would be fun.

The first three died quickly, though messily. They were sitting on the couch in a living room, playing some sort of racing video game on the television. Dean didn’t bother to look at what it was. All his attention was focused on the three heads rising above the couch in front of him. There were so many ways he could deal with them, so many different kinds of death he could deal out. In the end, he went for quick and quiet in order not to alert the rest of the house. Switching his knife to his left hand, leaving the hand with the Mark free, Dean crept up just behind the couch. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, he drove the knife sideways into the guy’s head on the left. At the same time, his right arm whipped out and tore out the throat of the guy on the right. 

The one in the middle was barely turning, alerted by the quiet gurgling sounds from right and left, before Dean reached forward and drove the fingers of his right hand into his eyes. The guy’s mouth opened to scream but Dean clamped his left hand over his mouth. His fingers burrowed deeper and deeper into the guy’s eyes until they reached bone. A jab and a crunch later and he was through bone and digging into brain. The would-be scream turned into pained gurgling noises as brain matter pulped between Dean’s fingers. The Mark pulsed and burned on his arm, pushing for more and more. Blood flowed down his wrist and towards the Mark, seemingly drawn there like a magnet. When the leading edge of the flow touched the burning Mark, the guy sagged in his hands, dead. The whole thing took less than a minute though it felt much longer. Especially the third guy.

Without bothering to wipe his hands clean, Dean pulled his knife out of the first guy he’d killed and headed upstairs. There were more voices up here and he merely followed his ears to a large room with a fireplace. Six more Stynes sat around trading stories and comparing surgical scars. None of them noticed him standing in the doorway with bloody hands and murder in his eyes. Oh well. It’s not like they would be able to stand against him even if they did. He paced forward easily, light on his feet and arms loose. This might actually be a _fight_ and he was so looking forward to it.

The two who were directly across from him noticed him first, their eyes widening as they shot to their feet. The other four weren’t slack in their reactions, standing quickly and moving to put their backs to a wall. That wouldn’t save them. Dean smiled at them, all teeth and no mirth, before springing into the fight. The first two rushed him but he sidestepped easily. In an almost careless gesture, he lashed out with the knife and cut the arm of the one on his left. The knife bit deep, tearing through muscle and tendon as the man’s own inertia tore it out of him. That arm hung limp when he turned around, rage in his eyes. Dean merely shrugged at him and winked. That was barely a warm up.

But that small gesture opened him up to be grabbed from behind. A bulky, tall Styne had wrapped his arms around Dean’s, pinning them to his side and trying to pull him to the ground. That had been tried so many times Dean almost felt sorry for the guy. He ducked his head and bit the guy’s forearm, blood spurting and rushing into his mouth. The Mark pulsed harder, the taste of blood driving it to higher pleasures. The man holding him screamed and let go, letting Dean pivot and drive and elbow into his gut. Dean felt something snap and give while the man dropped to the floor clutching his belly. He struggled to breathe, panic gradually overtaking pain and anger on his face. He didn’t have long left. The elbow to his gut must have broken something vital.

Dean kicked him as he stepped over the soon-to-be corpse. Weakling. One man down permanently, five to go with one already hampered. This wasn’t shaping up to be much of a fight. Another Styne rushed him from behind, idiotically attempting to copy what the bulky man had tried. Dean sidestepped again, reaching for the man’s throat and tearing it out. He dropped the grisly remains on the floor as blood spurted from the wound, coating his face and chest. His tongue flicked out, licking the droplets off his lips. The remaining four Stynes paused at this, horror and disbelief on their faces as they saw Dean’s blood-flecked teeth. He wanted to glory in the kill, gloat over the bodies of the fallen, but he knew he didn’t have the time for that. This fight wasn’t quiet and there were four other Stynes somewhere in the house. Surely they could hear what was going on and would come running.

The remaining four traded glances before running at him as a group. Maybe they thought numbers would take him down. After all, with all the guns pointed at him when he’d first broken into the house, Dean had given up then. Not this time. Not with the taste of blood on his lips and death in his heart. Dean moved through the four in a delicate dance, knife slashing out here and there as his fist ripped out chunks of flesh. It took about thirty seconds and the last four were down. One was missing half his face, throat slashed, another was fruitlessly trying to staunch blood and intestines from gushing out of his wide-open abdomen, a third was facedown with a pool of blood slowly spreading underneath him, and the fourth’s head was staring at Dean glassy-eyed while his body lay a few feet away.

With a bloody hand, Dean wiped at his face. He only managed to smear the blood rather than wipe it off but that was okay. He just didn’t want it to get into his eyes. Running footsteps could be heard from the rest of the house and he grinned. It was always a good day when your prey came to you. He wiped his knife on the shirt of one of the bodies on the ground. Wouldn’t do to let it get gunky and be less effective. He waited quietly in the middle of the blood and gore, watching the doorway for the first signs of his prey. He didn’t have to wait long.

The first Styne through the doorway had to stop and retch as he saw the ruin lying before him. Dean dispatched him with a sense of twisted mercy. If the guy couldn’t handle blood, he was better off dead. The knife slid easily into the side of his throat, red blood pooling in the hollow of pale skin. Dean admired the colors for a moment before shoving the dead body away. The knife slid out just as easily, red streaming down the blade. And then the last three ran into the room. Dean bared his teeth at them and growled, fully in the grip of the Mark. He wasn’t quite human anymore but he wasn’t quite demon. He was somewhere in between and fully okay with it. His own pain and anger raged inside him, fanned into furious storms by the pulsing of the Mark. Each slice, each stab, each death eased that pain and anger a little. Just a little. But maybe, if he waded through enough blood and bodies, he could forget the sight of Charlie’s body in that shitty bathtub.

The youngest of the group tried to back away with his hands up. Dean wasn’t having any of that. He roughly shouldered the closest Styne away as he charged at the youngest. He drove the knife deep into the guy’s heart, twisting. The guy’s hands scrabbled at Dean’s own, nerveless fingers doing absolutely nothing against Dean’s strength. He shoved again, another body sliding off the end of his knife when a large weight struck him from the right. The third Styne, who’d hung back a little as they’d run in, had charged him and pinned his right arm against his body. One hand was locked around Dean’s wrist, holding the knife against the floor once they’d crashed down. The impact jolted Dean, drove the breath from his body. But it wasn’t enough to stop him from thinking and reacting. 

Since his hands were effectively pinned, Dean used his last free weapon: his teeth. Leaning into the guy’s neck, almost as if he was nuzzling like a lover, Dean bit through the arteries. The man gasped, his body spasming at the pain, but Dean kept going. Hot blood poured over his face and into his mouth as he bit and gnawed. He only stopped when the guy stopped struggling on top of him and turned into dead weight. With a grunt, Dean shoved the body off him and got to his feet, blood and strips of meat hanging from his teeth. The last guy looked horrorstruck, eyes skipping from Dean to the bodies on the floor and back. But there was nowhere for him to run. There was no mercy in Dean. Maybe never again.

Enjoying the chase, Dean stalked forward slowly, knife raised. His free hand was clenched into a fist, bloody up to his elbow. The only clean spot on his right forearm was the Mark, which burned with a fiery glow. As Dean moved, the last guy backed up step by step, desperately looking for some escape. It was only when his eyes reached the windows and lit with hope that Dean ended the fight. There was no way this one was getting away. The Mark demanded total destruction and Dean was going to oblige it. Just as the guy’s back hit the wall, Dean sliced with the blade across his stomach. As the guy doubled over to grab the wound, Dean drove the knife through the back of his skull. It made a satisfying crunch that Dean felt reverberating down his arm. The man dropped and silence reigned in the house but for the music and television. Dean wasn’t even breathing all that hard.

Now it was time to go home. Eldon wasn’t one of the Stynes he’d killed tonight and Dean needed to find him. A good place to start would be the bunker. Maybe the files would have information on where the Styne family had more property or where they might go to ground. Maybe even allies, which was more people Dean could kill. Hotwiring one of the cars in the garage was absurdly easy and he was on his way. Blood still covered him but he didn’t care. All he cared about was revenge and causing as much pain as possible. It’s all the Mark wanted and, for once, he agreed with it. After all, he was an addict and this was the best high he’d ever had in his life. Even better than sex, even better than the most perfect greasy cheeseburger. And he wanted more.


End file.
